‘Sir,’ said Dick Devereux, in a voice that sounded strangely, ’I have a request; may I make it?—­a favour to beg.  ’Tisn’t, all things remembered, very much.  If I write a letter, and place it open in your hand—­a letter, Sir—­to Miss Lily—­will you read it to her, or else let her read it?  Or even a message—­a spoken message—­will you give it?’

‘Captain Devereux,’ said the doctor, in a reserved but very sad sort of way, ’I must tell you that my dear child is by no means well.  She has had a cold, and it has not gone away so soon as usual—­something I think of her dear mother’s delicacy—­and so she requires care, my little Lily, a great deal of care.  But, thank God, the spring is before us.  Yes, yes; the soft air and sunshine, and then she’ll be out again.  You know the garden, and her visits, and her little walks.  So I don’t fret or despair.  Oh, no.’  He spoke very gently, in a reverie, after his wont, and he sighed heavily.  ’You know ’tis growing late in life with me, Captain Devereux,’ he resumed, ’and I would fain see her united to a kind and tender partner, for I think she’s a fragile little flower.  Poor little Lily!  Something, I often think, of her dear mother’s delicacy, and I have always nursed her, you know.  She has been a great pet;’ and he stopped suddenly, and walked to the window.  ’A great pet.  Indeed, if she could have been spoiled, I should have spoiled her long ago, but she could not.  Ah, no!  Sweet little Lily!’

Then quite firmly but gently Parson Walsingham went on:—­

’Now, the doctors say she mustn’t be agitated, and I can’t allow it, Captain Devereux.  I gave her your message—­let me see—­why ’tis four, ay, five months ago.  I gave it with a good will, for I thought well of you.’

’And you don’t any longer—­there, ‘tis all out,’ broke in Devereux, fiercely.

’Well, you know her answer; it was not lightly given, nor in haste, and first and last ’twas quite decided, and I sent it to you under my own hand.’

’I thought you were a friend to me, Dr. Walsingham, and now I’m sure you’re none,’ said the young fellow, in the same bitter tone.

’Ah, Captain Devereux, he can be no friend to you who is a friend to your faults; and you no friend to yourself if you be an enemy to him that would tell you of them.  Will you like him the worse that would have you better?’

’We’ve all faults, Sir; mine are not the worst, and I’ll have neither shrift nor absolution.  There’s some reason here you won’t disclose.’

He was proud, fierce, pale, and looked damnably handsome and wicked.

‘She gave no reason, Sir;’ answered Dr. Walsingham.  No, she gave none; but, as I understood, she did not love you, and she prayed me to mention it no more.’

‘She gave no reason; but you know the reason,’ glared out Devereux.

‘Indeed, Sir, I do not know the reason,’ answered the rector.